Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before

Thursday, September 29, 2005


Wow, I'm getting bad at this whole blogging thing, no?

In case you are wondering why I look so much more mature and closer to my death, it's because I turned 30 on Tuesday. I can honestly say that this is the first birthday where I actually answer "Yes" to when people ask if it feels different to be a year older. Thirty just has a feel to it. I don't know what that feel is, but I feels it! I gots the Thirty in me!

Man, so last night I had the craziest of dreams. The craziest was this one where I was John Elway. I had this old-timey uniform and helmet on. I was yelling at my whole team as we were on a last minute drive to the end zone. I was yelling my head off. Then I got up to the line of scrimmage to call the play, but then I realized that since I wasn't actually John Elway, I didn't know any plays. So I just yelled out, "Two two three three. Hut hut!'

Then I got the ball, dropped back and saw someone open. I threw the pass, thought it was going to be intercepted, but it was one of those perfectly placed passes and it was completed. Who was my receiver? Well, George W. Bush of course. He was just in the middle of the field waving his hands like, "I'm open!" And he was wearing a suit. Weird.

I also had a dream that I once dated Beyonce, way before she was famous, and I had another dream where I was driving in a stolen car with Randy Moss and Terrell Owens. I guess I like football players. And stealing cars. And Beyonce. And playing football with a president that I don't like.

I guess what these dreams mean is that we are all on the same team. Or something. Right?


So I'm at this party last weekend and this guy comes over to where a bunch of us are sitting and he says, "Hey. Don't eat that dip over there. I just put my hand in it." And sure enough, he had this dip all over his hands.

So I says to myself, I sure won't be eating that dip. Who knows where that guy's hand has been?

So later I'm a little drunk and pretty hungry and I find myself eating the dip. I am there talking to this other dude -- we're both eating dip -- and this gal comes over and she says, "You like my dip?" And we're both like, "Yeah, it's really good. What's in it?" And she says, "Salsa, sour cream and cream cheese." So I say, "Yeah, you can really taste the hand."

I then explained to her about the hand incident and kept going on about how tasty the hand is. When other people would come to eat the dip, I'd say, "The secret ingredient is hand."

So my suggestion to you, blog reader, is to do this at the next party you go to. No one even has to put their hand in the dip. You can pretend. But it is lots of fun to say to someone, "You can really taste the hand."


Somehow, not long ago, I got a craving for a Sloppy Joe. So I bought me some Manwich sauce and ground beef. I had lots of leftovers. I finished it all off tonight, because I was quite hungry, a perfect reason to eat. So I got home and began to re-heat.

I also felt like a beer. All I had in the fridge was one Budweiser. So I opened that one.

I also already had heartburn, before consuming any of the Manwich, or the beer. So I took a Pepcid. You are supposed to take it with a glass of water, but I used the Budweiser, which is pretty much water.

Anyway, I felt bad for the Pepcid, because I didn't really give it much of a chance.


Something I forgot to mention in my previous post about 9/11 ceremonies being private, was the thing that made me think that in the first place. I saw this whole family holding up pictures of the man they were mourning. OK, holding pictures is normal, but they had put his picture and sort of made a sign out of it. But it was one of those sort of signs that is glued to a popsicle stick. Not a very big picture. Almost as if they brought it so they could fan themselves if it became too warm. Know what kinds of signs I'm talking about? It was just weird. I think they also had him on a t-shirt, but that may have been another family.

I know it's not my place to tell other people how to mourn, so I won't. But I will tell the people that will eventually mourn me, and those people are my family. So here is my plea to them.

Dear family and friends. When my time comes, and I am no more, please, I beg of you, do not put my likeness on a handheld sign or a t-shirt. Just remember me how I was. Trying to make people laugh, holding doors open for old ladies, and masturbating in the bathtub.

Thanks.

You know, I've never masturbated in the bathtub, or cried in the bathtub, but I have talked about it recently. It is just very funny to me. Anything being done in a bathtub is humorous. Even taking a bath. It's funny. Now, to neatly wrap up about four recent posts of mine, imagine this: A clown crying in the bathtub while masturbating.

Oh man, that's good stuff.

Speaking of making me want to cry, how 'bout those Mets? Those fuckers. Tease me, they do. Every year, they are just a big ol' tease. They give me blue balls. I feel like we've been dry humping for the last five months, talking all dirty, and then suddenly two weeks ago, they were like, "OK, get off me now. I have to go home."

My balls feel about as big as Mr. Met's gigantic ball of a head.

I always imagined Mr. Met led a very sad existence. Poor guy has that huge baseball for a head. You know he isn't getting chicks. He's a guy I pictured going home and crying in the bathtub. And then when he tries to get up and get out of the tub, he slips and falls, and of course he hits his head, because what else can he hit?

Poor bastard.

In happier news, did everyone see how Lisa and Trish decided to give the big EFF YOO to the terrorists by doing what George Bush told us to do on September 11? You know when he was all, "Go about your lives. Go shop. Go to Disney World." Well, Lisa and Trish went shopping, and well... go read.

I just want to reiterate to my family, please don't make me into a sign or t-shirt. Unless it's this picture.


So hey, Sept. 11 happened this weekend. That's getting old real fast, huh?

I kid. But I do find it odd that the ceremonies from Ground Zero are televised in their entirety. You know, when all the people are crying and they are reading the names, do we need to see that? Yes, people will say that we should be reminded of that awful day, but I find it kind of, um, I don't know. Icky? It makes me feel like I am intruding on a personal, private moment. I feel that it should be kept private. The same way I keep it private when I masturbate in the tub.

Or do I????

Oh, so anyway. It seems as though the Ground Zero memorial will never happen. There will just be arguments back and forth for years. It will remain the ugly construction site that it looks like right now for quite some time.

My favorite part of Ground Zero right now can be seen if you go there from the exit on the N train. When I used to live in Queens, I'd walk by it every day. What was it? Well, it was this piece of wood that was some sort of construction piece. I don't know what it was used for. In fact, I had never seen it moved. So what is so exciting about this piece of wood? Well, prominently displayed on it by some red paint was a sentence. What was the sentence?

Perhaps, "God bless America?" Nope. Maybe, "We will never forget?" Negative. OK, um, "Osama can run, but he can't hide?" And then below that, maybe, "OK, so he can run and hide, but at least God will get him." No, none of that. In nice big red capital letters, it read:

ERIC SUCKS DICK.




And it was right there in plain view for all the tourists to see. I would often help some lost tourists find Ground Zero. I would tell them to just get off the train when I do, and it's right there. And that is where they would find out that a man named Eric has been accused of being a homosexual.

Welcome to this hallowed ground, where so many lost their lives on a brilliant Tuesday morning in September. And oh yes, Eric sucks dick.


There is something inherently funny about a clown driving a car. I don't mean one of those little clown cars where 15 clowns somehow inhabit the space. I mean seeing a guy, whose job it is to be a clown, driving to work in his very own car. You pull up at a traffic light and see next to you a clown driving his Taurus to some kid's birthday or to the hospital to cheer up some kids.

It's just funny. His face is all clowned up, probably wearing a wig, and he's just like, "Come on light, turn green."

Oh, clowns. My, how they suck. We were talking about clowns at work the other day and a co-worker actually said, "I really like clowns." I haven't heard anyone admit to liking clowns in quite some time.

A quick Google search of "clowns for hire" just led me to, yep, www.clownsforhire.com. They make me laugh for all the wrong reasons. Seeing this just makes me smile:

Interested in Hiring a Clown?

Well, no I'm not, but I would like to know who is. If I ever have to organize another bachelor party, I'm getting clowns instead of strippers.

I like this web site. You can search for clowns in your area, and pick which kind of clowns you'd like to search for. One of the options is Female Clown. That seems creepy to me. There is also the Multicultural Clown. Now I am picturing some racist who wants to get a clown for his kid's birthday and being like, "Make sure you don't get no nigger clown."

I think if I got a clown, I'd look for one in the General Clowning Around category. He'll just come and fuck around. Nothing specific. No juggling. Just here to clown around. There is also the Storytelling clown.

"Gather round boys and girls, and I will tell you a story about me not being able to pay my electricity bill!"

This crazy looking lady is named Sprinkles the Clown.



No Sprinkles the Clown performance is complete without an appearance from her main sidekick, the puppet, Spaghetti Head the Raccoon. Because of the close relationship the two have developed over the years, the children actually believe ¬?Sguettis¬? to be a real raccoon as he does tricks on command.?When Sprinkles the Clown counts 1, 2, 3 you will fly through the air and do somersaults.¬? It¬?s not until he flies right into their laps do they realize the real joke is on them. How they love it!

OK. I'm done with this clown stuff. It is making me feel uncomfortable.


I've read a lot about the state of Nawlins, but this article is the best description of what it must be like there right now.

God damn.

The more I keep thinking about the city, the more I recall how much it helped me. I wrote about my 9/11 experience here. I recall one night, walking down some back street, being horribly depressed, and running into this guy who was a street entertainer. Not one of those idiots that paint themselves silver and stand still. This guy could sing. He was a slight black man. Maybe 120 pounds. Tiny. But the man had a voice. I walked by him, and he asked if I wanted to hear a song. I said I'd like to hear something about America. I was feeling drunk, alone and patriotic. He sang a song, and right now I am upset that I don't recall what song it was.

But I suppose that doesn't matter, because I remember it making me want to cry. I wanted nothing more than to be home, yet here was this guy singing about America, which at the time was New York, and I didn't care what the song was. It was just me and this random guy singing about America on a back street of New Orleans. It seemed perfectly normal at the time. I hope he is still alive. He was a bright spot of my trip.


On Wednesday I was walking to the train to get to work. I was walking across a street when I noticed a parked car that had a few kids in it. The car also had a grandmother in the back seat. All that was missing in this car was a dog. The old Neglecta Trifecta. Kid, old person, dog. Hot car. Windows rolled down just a bit.

So anyway, I'm walking by, and the kids are enjoying the alone time, because grandma has no idea what's going down. As I pass by one side of the car, this little girl, I'm guessing eight years old, leans out the window and says, "You stupid." But she says it how ghetto kids say things these days. "Stoo-pit." It could be a name. "Hello, my name is Stuart Pitt. But you can call me Stu Pitt."

So, I was obviously insulted by this, um, insult. Because, so far, I've not done anything to indicate to this little girl that I am stupid. I crossed the street successfully, did not get hit by a car. What have I done to indicate stupidity? So I say to her as I am walking by, "No you're not. You are."

Let's recap.

Little girl: You stupid.

Me: No you're not. You are.


In my attempt to prove to a kid that I wasn't stupid, I seemed to prove that I was, indeed, stoo-pit.

I kept walking and was like, "Damn, Toole, you totally fucked that up. You had the chance to tell that kid straight up that she was stoo-pit, but you fucked it up."

But did I? As I said what I said and as I walked away, I noticed that my nemesis was incredibly confused by my comeback. Her eight year old take on the language may very well have been my advantage. She had this look on her face like, "Why would he tell me I wasn't stupid, then tell me right after that I was? His comeback makes no sense, and confuses my feeble brain."

So while I felt pretty dumb about the whole thing, I am pretty satisfied that I got that girl to think twice next time she thinks about yelling at passers-by. For they might have a really bad comeback. One that makes no sense. Kids are so stupid these days. I mean stoo-pit.


Hi. You look pretty today.

I would like to echo Kristin's point about complaining about gas prices. The only person I've really heard complain was myself, though. So hey, Mike Toole, shut the fuck up!

Seriously.

I've been good about shutting myself up, though. I have a new slogan that I say when I, or someone else complains. Well, not a slogan, but a mantra. Here is an example from this weekend. This was me at the first gas pump I stopped at on my drive down to DC.

Me: Man, I should have got gas in New Jersey. It was thirty cents cheaper. Shit. Fucking hurricane. (pause to hear myself bitching). Well, at least I'm not getting raped in the Superdome.

I mean, what the fuck is it about natural disasters that make some people crazy fucking assholes? I guess they are already crazy, and the disaster just gives them the green light to act on their crazy shit.

Hmm, this hurricane sure has devastated this land I have lived in for so long. It pains my heart to see such suffering, yet I know what will make me feel better. I shall go rape women at the Superdome!

I mean, is there a worse place to get raped? The fucking Superdome? It's just awful. I guess Veterans Stadium would have been a bad one too. And of course, any place is a bad place to be raped, but if you had to choose a location to be raped, I imagine not many people would choose the Superdome.

So next time you are complaining or hear someone complaining about some stupid shit, just say, "Hey, at least you aren't getting raped at the Superdome."

Oh, hey. Let's stop bashing the president about the poor response. Give him a break. He was on vacation. You know how it is when you are on vacation. You don't really check the news very often, and when you get back home, you're like, "No shit. When did Bob Denver die?"

So give the guy a break. He was on vacation and one of the largest cities in his country was destroyed. It could happen to anyone.


Oh, hello. My, how I've neglected you. Sorry. I've been busy and not caring about my blog.

I'm still not sure I care, but boredom has urged me to create a new post, although I've got nothing to tell you of great importance.

There was a hurricane in the Gulf states. The president actually cut his vacation short. It's just that serious. He was about three days late, but I heard he was reading a book to a bunch of kids for those three days and he couldn't think of what to do. And he shit his pants a little bit.

I was in New Orleans way back on September 11, 2001, and I hope and pray that those people I met that were nice enough to talk to an emotional stranded wreck are doing OK today. I don't remember any names, but they were nice to a Jersey boy who wanted nothing but a fast exit out of New Orleans.

Yikes:

Tempers flared elsewhere across the devastated region. Police said a man in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, fatally shot his sister in the head over a bag of ice.

I make this promise to my sisters: No matter how bad things get, I will never shoot you in the head over a bag of ice. Unless it's a bag of those Flav-R-Ice ice pops. They're good.
All material © Mike Toole; 2003 - 2006